Lines of Communication Forever Blue 1968
by sjowall1452
Summary: Cold Case CBS Forever Blue. Told from the point of view of the rookie Jimmy Bruno takes out the night he doesn't take Coop. Familiarity with show necessary.


Lines of Communication

(All changes to the original script are intentional. Thanks to Tom Pettit, writer (with whom I may have gone to college), the entire cast and crew…and especially, the guy who picks out the songs for "Cold Case," CBS. They're terrific, and sound like they've been written for the show.)

* * *

"Cooper responding. I'm a block away."

So he _is_ out, thought James Macpherson, his eye on the street before him. Although he was a rookie, he knew that the man whose voice came through the radio and the one beside him on the seat were partners. From a year of (almost exclusively) walking the street as a beat cop, he knew that the man beside you, your partner, was almost like a second skin.

"Who's he with?" asked Macpherson. It was important, since Cooper had responded to a robbery call for under the bridge.

"Nobody," said Bruno, with a snap, unlike him. "Head over that way. O.K?"

Macpherson took a left at the next corner.

"Know the city well, huh?" said Bruno, almost friendly.

"Lived here all my life, " answered Macpherson. James Macpherson was a tall (of a height with Bruno), skinny redhead, with a prominent Adam's apple. Quiet, thoughtful, and more intelligent, frankly, than he let on as a rule.

He knew better, for instance, than to ask Bruno why he, Macpherson, was ferrying Jimmy Bruno around tonight. Most things have reasons. Rookies gotta learn to drive; rookies gotta learn the streets. But with Bruno riding shotgun? Cooper wasn't sick; he was driving alone. _What am I doing here?_

A subdued voice from the car radio: "Officer down…east end of the bridge, by Diamond. I've been hit...two shots, out of nowhere." Dispatch would have hit the switch, repeating the message, broadcasting to all officers within range, and to the state police, who would seal of all arteries into and out of the city. "Officer down"; the magic words.

Bruno was suddenly just this side of frantic: "That's Coop! Floor it!" Macpherson floored it, eyes on the street, switched his beacons on, no siren. (Technically, he should have waited for Bruno to tell him to turn the beacons on, but he felt "floor it!" included this command. He had almost hit the siren, but, unbeknownst to Macpherson, he and Bruno were of one mind about sirens: they make people freeze, not get out of the way, and they tip off crooks to your location.) Without removing his eyes from the business of driving at high speed, he listened to the following conversation with considerable intensity:

Cooper: (from his hand-held radio) Jimmy...you out there?

Bruno: (his radio in his hand since the first words): I'm here, man, hang on! (Bruno's voice was a strange combination of desperate and under control. Macpherson thought: a .38 Special? The shooter's own 45?…surely not a shotgun…_he was still talking_! (Why, then, did Macpherson have the feeling it _was_ a shotgun anyway?) Two of the three weapons that had crossed his mind were standard police issue, which didn't mean, of course, that they weren't in other hands as well.). Macpherson shook his head, as if trying to shake thoughts out.

"What?" asked Bruno.

"Just thinking about guns." Bruno didn't seem very interested at the moment.

A pause.

Bruno: Coop!

Cooper: (a sound of pain, difficulty with speech) Jimmy…

Bruno: Keep talking! You hear me? We're almost there." (Macpherson took a quick look at Bruno's eyes. Liquid…all Italians have liquid eyes…sure, and all Indians walk single file….)

Another pause.

Bruno: Coop!

A longer pause. Now they really were almost there. Bruno held his radio close to his face.

Cooper: (very quiet,) We were the lucky ones…. remember that." They heard Cooper's "send" switched off; the "receive" was open.

Bruno: Coop! Coop! (Bruno looked away from the radio; the corners of his mouth were down.)

Macpherson closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, as the bridge complex closed over them. Those were the last words of a man, the sender knew it; the receiver knew it. They were not casual. During this piece of a second, he tried to find a right meaning for them (he fleetingly remembered a high school teacher saying of some Greek, confronted with an impossible decision "there was no right choice for him to make"). Once he decided that no Greek gods, or anyone else, were fighting over his allegiance it became relatively simple, and (even if a hundred other cops had heard it, which he doubted) Jim Macpherson consigned "We were the lucky ones…remember that" to a chamber of his brain occupied by only one other memory. The entire mental gymnastic took a second:

X

Ten years earlier, in 1958, Jim had made up his mind that he _would _find out something—anything—about his father's submarine service during the Korean War, now six years past. "What was it like?" had unearthed: "Quiet as hell." "Where were you, mostly?" had brought forth "Southeast Asia." There had been other questions, equally unproductive of information. This particular evening, he decided to take a more specific approach, and sat down in a chair across from his father, close to him. His father was working on his third modest glass of single malt Scotch; everyone knew how dear that was.

"What was the name of your boat?" he asked.

"A was on two or three." Suddenly, he opened up, as if he had been wanting to tell someone something for a long time: "The one I remember best wis the Matryoshka. (His father was Scots).

"What a mouthful! Ma--tryoshka…hey, aren't those the little wooden dolls that fit one inside the other, till you get down to a tiny one? They're Russian."

"Where'd ye learn that?"

"I have this good friend at school; she's Russian. She has some. Cute as hell—girl and dolls. You've met her, dad."

"Aye. Little Russian wooden dolls. Most subs have easy names. Nat oors. …Ironic—isn't that the word?"

"How so?"

His father took a deep breath. "We wis—were--nodging around the coast of Russia, for about two months." Jim felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. In 1958, the Cold War was liable to turn hot at any minute. In 1952, it _had been_ hot, if not with the U.S.S.R. herself

"Close in?" he asked.

"Verra close."

"Holy shit!" said Jim. "So...you'd just up your periscope, and see what the Russians were up to?"

"That was the ideea."

Jim's father had never said, "It's a secret." Or "Don't tell your mother. Don't tell your friends." Or simply, "Don't tell." But Jim had never said a word about it to anyone, nor would he, till 1999, long after the Berlin wall had come down, and countries had broken off from the U.S.S.R., like the edges of a chocolate bar, and the cold war was, for all serious purposes, over.

During the next few years, Cooper's last words would occasionally bump up against his father's submarine, until they were nearly forgotten (for a time). Much later, when everyone knew what the words meant, few knew what they were.

X

They pulled to a stop behind patrol car 108, all its lights off, but lit from the front by yellow lights on sawhorses, which surrounded some barrels and an elevated riser against the left side of the bridge. Bruno immediately got out, leaving (to Macpherson's slight horror) his radio on the seat. Macpherson followed more slowly, his radio to his mouth. He saw Bruno standing, bent, by the rolled-down window of the driver's side, looking into the dark, open, dead eyes of his partner. Macpherson moved around to the front of the Plymouth Fury.

"612 reporting at the scene," said Macpherson. "Holy shit!It_ was _a sawed-off shotgun!"

"Who the hell are you?" said dispatch.

"Macpherson. Driving for Bruno."

"Bruno's with _you_? Oh...yeah, I see it now. You're the rookie."

"Right."

"How do you know it was a shotgun?"

"By the size of the hole in the front window. His hand-held radio on "receive," in his right hand, on the bench seat. All lights off; he must have switched them off when he parked. Dead. Jagged round hole, 8-10" across, left center, in the windshield. I'm thinking…two ought ought buck shots, the first, probably from three or four feet directly in front of the car (shooter was probably hidden behind the sawhorses with yellow lights, close to the left-hand side of the bridge, when Cooper got here), so first shot downwards, to the stomach. Then shooter moved around to the right front of the car, real close in, shot again, so nearly straight, to the chest. To make sure. No buckshot holes visible in the window. I'm thinking, the second shot blew out most of the cracks—if there were more--and whatever pellet holes may have been there—but that size, couldn't be anything but ought oughts from a sawed-off shotgun. A little blood on the upper face from broken glass, blood from the wounds from the nose and mouth. Lower chest and stomach are…you'll have to scrape him out.

"You're doing great, Macpherson."

"Dispatch?"

"Yeah...new one. You were talking to Sarge...Coop's dad."

"Oh. Shit. Sorry. How long?"

"Last note: '8-10" across.'"

"Good. Listen, I'm going to go see to Bruno a minute." He hooked his radio on his belt, looked at Bruno. He was shaking, bent, his breath labored. Macpherson squeezed his skinny body between Bruno and the car window, facing him.

"What?" said Bruno, dazed, frightened.

"Medicine." He put both his arms around Bruno, and slowly squeezed hard. "You gotta do it too." After a moment, Bruno put his arms around Macpherson, and squeezed. Bruno's cheek, right next to McPherson's, was dry. _His eyes must swallow their tears_, Macpherson thought. There was one brief sob. Macpherson took one of his arms away, and rubbed Bruno's back, making a circle with his hand, hard. After about two minutes, the shaking stopped, and Bruno's breath returned to normal.

"Thanks, man. Where'd you learn that?" They were headed back toward 612.

"Walking a beat. We call it a band-aid…you were going into shock. " Bruno laughed. Then he stopped.

"How did he keep on talking?"

"Guess he had something important to say. Don't think about it now. Get in the car. I'll be there in a few minutes."

"O.K." said Bruno, as if obeying an order from a superior officer.

"Macpherson?" Macpherson took his radio off his belt again.

"Yes. I think I better get Bruno back. He'll do, but not here, for long."

"Could you find me a spent shell? Then you guys can go. Murphy's on the way."

"I'll try (he was looking for a 3, or even 3 ½" long shell, most of which was dull red, so he didn't really need a microscope). He unhooked his flashlight from his belt, searched three to four feet in front of the hood, a little to his left, the shooter's right. He saw it almost immediately, fumbled a minute with his ballpoint pen, but found a longer pencil to slide into it. "12 GA Remington" on the brass base, primer dented, ought ought on the red plastic. 3 ½ inches long." From a pants pocket he fished out an unopened packet of Kleenex (which he always carried), took one out from the center, dropped the shell into it and crammed the rest back in the pocket. "Slid it off my pencil into a new Kleenex." He said putting the shell carefully in his shirt pocket He looked briefly at Bruno, who sat in 612, his face in his hands. The other one, the second shot: he sighed, and now facing the hood, swept the area right in front of, and under, the car with his flashlight. "Don't see the other one. Must not have re-cocked after the second shot. Probably in a hurry to get out of here."

"Where'd you guess he went?"

"Continued around the car to his left, and out between the piers, in a big hurry, to his own car. You don't walk down the street very far with a sawed-off shotgun."

"O.K. Good job, Macpherson. You guys can go now. Thanks.

He headed back to 612, opened the driver's door.

" Oh...one more thing. I had my radio on the whole time, of course—what was the last thing Cooper said? Something about "luck"?

"Sorry, dispatch. I didn't hear it."

"O.K. It was muffled here too."

"Right." (_Praised be God, and not…however the rest went_…)

Macpherson backed the car up to where he could safely turn around. He saw Murphy, a block away, coming on with his lights and beacons on, but no siren. He flashed his headlights a couple of times so Murphy would give them room to pass.

They drove in silence for a few moments; cars had begun to pass them, going the other way, cars with beacons on, none with sirens. Bruno looked calm, but drained.

"It's going to get crowded," said Macpherson. Bruno nodded.

"Left my radio on the car seat—can you imagine?" said Bruno. "Y'know, you're the first person as tall as I am to ever put his arms around me. I was this tall at 16; my wife's kinda short…Guess my folks must have, when I was little, but I can't remember it now. Father never made it back from World War Two, killed on Leyte. Mother died of cancer, a few years later...sorry, I'm running off at the mouth."

"That's O.K. You're entitled."

"You...did all the work," said Bruno, ashamed.

"You had all the grief. Unequal distribution of burden."

Bruno suddenly relaxed, sorrowful, as if he'd just realized that grieving for a dead partner was expected. Even a partner who wasn't your lover.

"I half-heard your report back there. You did a great job," he said.

"Thanks." Macpherson smiled. "Guess we'll be calling each other by our last names from now on, to avoid confusion, if for no other reason."

"Yeah. Two Jims is one too many." There was a short pause. "I guess…you'd like to know what you're doing here?" said Bruno.

"If you'd like to tell me."

"Coop and I had a disagreement; he took off alone."

"Oh," said Macpherson, genuinely distressed. "The Irish—the noisy neighbors of my people—"

"I'm pretty tight with the Irish," said Bruno, but smiled.

"Yes, of course. Anyway, they have a saying: Never let the sun set on a quarrel. But anyone who's had a close friend, or is married—that just about covers everyone, doesn't it? —knows that lots of suns set on some quarrels. It can't be helped. But now, a life has set on one."

"Yes. We were both right, and both wrong. I think." Macpherson didn't say—since what Cooper had said didn't exist anymore—that only in the deepest sense could "lucky" be used to describe their relationship; from any other point if view, it was a disaster.

"Perhaps some day, you'll be able to sort it out together."

"Coop—doesn't—didn't-- believe in stuff like that anymore."

"Whether he's right or wrong---I doubt that'll not affect the reality of the situation, will it?"

"No. Hey—were you _born _in Scotland?"

"No. Dad was. Sometimes when I'm tired, I get things from his speech."

Macpherson put his hand on Bruno's shoulder for a moment. "I'm sorry. About Coop."

"Thanks Macpherson. And…Macpherson—"

"Yes?"

"Thanks for not hearing."

"Nothing not to hear. You're welcome. Permanently."

Macpherson looked briefly at Bruno, saw the shadow of the anguish return.

"No place for another band aid. People will think we're necking in the front seat of your car."

"Oh. You do that stuff sitting down, too?" Bruno laughed; McPherson laughed too, to keep him company.

Back at the station, men kept touching Jimmy Bruno, saying how sorry they were. Those who did not choose to commiserate, for whatever reason, stayed clear. Bruno was ordered to take two weeks sick leave, just like Sarge. And neither was of course on the case. His being at home would give his wife, he thought, some relief from childcare; he was glad of that. Most of the men addressed their questions to Macpherson, to whom they looked with respect. He was nearly as exhausted as Bruno.

* * *

At two A.M., Jimmy Bruno sat in his shorts and undershirt, on the couch in the darkened living room. He and his wife were not yet divorced, but slept separately, he relegated to this couch-bed. He'd made it this far, but looking at the pile of sheets, pillow and blanket Eileen had put at one end of the couch, he realized how completely out of gas he was.

"Hey, Jimmy," said a disembodied voice. Jimmy could tell it was disembodied, even in the dark. At least, it seemed quite certain to Jimmy that there was a voice:

"Coop?"

"Just a little piece of him."

"I'm glad for whatever."

"You gonna remember what I said? I gotta go."

"Yeah. For you, and me. But not for everyone am I going to remember."

"Changed your mind a little huh? When?" Could a ghost smile?

"When you took off like a bat out of hell, I felt like half of me was missing."

"Uh...that's sounds pretty conclusive. Macpherson lied, about not hearing what I said."

"I know. But dispatch didn't. So maybe nobody else heard. Big secret. Still a lucky one…in one respect, I guess."

"Yeah. Maybe. Sorry I gotta leave. Goodnight…Sweetheart." The room was empty, except for the man on the couch. At least, it seemed to Jimmy that there had been a sudden change. It was the opposite of what he had done as he died, he thought: he closed his receiver.

"Goodnight, Coop," Jimmy said, alone. Muttered "My father's favorite sappy love song from World War Two…" He sat there a few more minutes, remembering his father, home on leave, singing it—sort of to his mom, sort of just to show off his baritone. Although he'd only been six years old, he remembered the words:

Goodnight, Sweetheart,

Till we meet tomorrow

Goodnight, Sweetheart,

Sleep will banish sorrow

Tears and parting

Make us forlorn,

But with the dawn

A new day is born.

Goodnight, Sweetheart,

Though I'm not beside you

Goodnight, Sweetheart,

Still my love will guide you

Dreams enfold you

In each one I'll hold you:

Goodnight, Sweetheart, goodnight.

He flung the bedclothes on the floor, and himself on the couch, without pulling the bed out, in a crimp. "As if it wasn't crowded enough on this couch already," he said, smiled, and instantly fell asleep to sweet dreams, as if the day had never happened. He woke once during the night, remembering Macpherson's voice:

"Perhaps someday you'll be able to sort it out together."

Later, when he remembered that first night after Coop's death, on the cramped couch, he thought of it as a kind of gift, a much-needed cushion, against his life to come.

* * *

Two weeks later, when Bruno returned to work, he looked around for Macpherson, but didn't see him. He approached Lieutenant McCree, sitting at his desk, sorting papers.

"Where's Macpherson?" asked Bruno.

"We transferred him to a different precinct, couple of days ago. Little less demanding."

"You're serious. Whit for?

:"Pardon?" asked McCree, elaborately cupping a hand behind his ear (For a simple man, he used his hands a lot when he spoke).

"Why?"

"You miss your nice new partner already?" said McCree. Jimmy looked directly into McCree's eyes, which then avoided his. "Year or so is all."

"I wasn't thinking how nice he was—though he was---I was thinking how _smart_ and _capable _and ready to fill another fellow's shoes, when the fellow wasn't with it, he was."

"Well, you're not in charge of the Philadelphia Police Department yet, Bruno. We felt he needed more experience."

Bruno walked away, wondering what Macpherson had been looking into, before it was decided he _needed more experience_.

* * *

Author's notes:

Scots words (not Gaelic!)

Wiswas

Nodgingpoking

I'm thinking I imagine

I doubt: I suspect, think

Whit for?Why?

All three beacons on a '66 Plymouth Fury police car (Philadelphia) are red. The middle, 3-D one has a light bulb in the center, with a dished mirror revolving around it. The two side ones, circular, but flat, which appear to flash on and off, actually do. The taillights can also flicker or flash.

"Praised be God, and not our strength for't"—from Laurence Olivier's "Henry V." He made it in 1944, partly to give the English courage for the final year of the war. There were no DVDs or VHS tapes in those days—not even 33 1/3 (longplaying) records (it was available on 78 RPM). It was shown almost continually during its first 5 years, and many people saw it (for many, it was their only experience of Shakespeare, ever). Gorgeous film, for which Olivier won a prestigeous award for his contribution to the war effort. It was probably his best film, though "Hamlet" (two years later) won the Oscars. It was shot in Ireland, there being few unblemished and unbombed spaces in England large enough for the battle scenes. He says the line in thanks for his victory at Agincourt, in France, 1415. "Goodnight, Sweetheart," (the old one). --First recorded by Guy Lumbardo and Rudy Valee (Ray Noble, Reg Connelly), in (gulp!) 1931, but became popular again during World War Two, although a careful reading of the words does not completely support the picture of a soldier's going off to war. Cannot find the author---yet 


End file.
